


One Way or Another

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, One Shot Collection, and making it shoot's, my attempt at tackling the common aus, some might be ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-08 18:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: Even in the worlds without The Machine, they still find their way to each other.(Root and Shaw, dumped in different AUs.)





	1. Coffee Shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmates AUs have its own series: [We're Perfect for Each Other (You're Gonna Figure That Out Someday)](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1021797)

Cole created flawless cover identity as usual. Being a waitress at a coffee shop was common, unsuspecting, and easy to slip away from the scene once Shaw fixed the problem while he erased all traces of her being there. It was up to her to ramp up the charm and refrained from using her sidearm.

So far, the number was clean—as clean as someone could get anyway. He had debt from taking courses to be the barista he was now. He took bills from the tip jar whenever he thought no one was looking. He smoked weed after his Monday shifts. He went clubbing on Fridays and crashed at his brother’s place, despite his sister-in-law’s hatred. He stared at the lady boss’ ass for a little too long, even though she was married and had two kids. Shaw was sure whatever was going on between them was mutual, though (she didn’t give a damn, only spraying bleach on every sturdy surface in the shop as precaution).

On her third day as waitress, after two white shirts fallen victim to spilled coffee and unwanted flirts jotting down their numbers on napkins for her, she was so ready to just knock out the number and used a less than pleasant way to find out what he had been up to.

“Why can’t I be the jobless college graduate hanging around here all day for free Wi-Fi?”

“Ouch,” Cole whispered back over his laptop. While keeping an eye on the number, he might also have spent the day watching funny cat videos (that sort of reminded him of Shaw, but he would never say that out loud). His expression betrayed nothing, though. “We’ve tried that before. Didn’t work.”

Shaw wiped the table with more force than necessary, rattling everything on it. Somewhere around the counter, the lady boss cleared her throat. Shaw didn’t need to look back to know that she was being glared at again.

“Would you like another refill, sir?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes, please.” Unlike Shaw’s, Cole’s smile was genuine. He didn’t bat an eyelash even when his cup overflowed. “Thanks.”

Shaw thought about slipping in laxative on her pot of coffee as payback when a customer on her right caught her attention. The woman gave her a small wave, pointing at her almost empty cup. She dressed casual but professional, like some sort of psychologist or something similar. She had a pretty smile and soothing voice that had Shaw pouring coffee into her cup before she even finished saying _may I have a refill, please_.

The woman beamed up when Shaw was done. “Thank you, Sameen,” she said.

Shaw’s eyes twitched, narrowing in an instant. She felt for the thin knife she had hidden in her apron pocket. It was only when she noticed the woman glancing at her chest that she remembered the stupid nametag this stupid job required her to wear on the clock. She gave her a jerky nod.

“I’m Caroline. Turing.” The smile was wider this time. “My office’s nearby. I couldn’t help but notice that you’re new?”

“Yeah.”

The bell on the front door jingled, indicating new arrival. Shaw wasn’t so excited for more customers, but she wanted to get away from Caroline and her rather unsettling interest and constant smile as fast as possible. Caroline saw it through her body language.

“So nice to meet you then, Sameen,” she said, smile faltered a bit. “We’ll do this again soon.”

Shaw paid no mind to Caroline’s choice of words, nodded, and went back to the kitchen to get a fresh pot. She didn’t see her again on the next day and the day after, which she was unsure to feel relieved or disappointed about because Caroline was interested for sure and she might let a chance of hooking up with a beautiful woman slipped away and Cole had been teasing her about it nonstop.

(The number turned out to be a part of a sleeper cell. They took care of him; put him back to sleep where nobody would ever find him. What nagged Shaw was the fact that the lady boss committed suicide not a day after they made the barista gone. Cole told her that heartbreak could do that to people. She thought a scorned spouse—or a killer-for-hire a scorned spouse paid—could do that too.)

 

* * *

 

Waitress seemed to be Cole’s favorite cover to create. Several numbers and three different countries later, Shaw was again tying an apron around her waist. She slapped on the fake smile before she went out and started her shift. Coffee shops in Germany weren’t so different from coffee shops in the states. The number didn’t work with her this time, but he visited twice a day and lived just across the street.

_“He’s heading out.”_

Shaw didn’t bother to hide her small grin at hearing Cole’s quivering voice. He was the one doing the active surveillance this time, stationing on the roof of the number’s apartment and watching from the little camera he had sneaked into ventilation.

“His friend?”

Cole groaned. He had been up all night, watching the number’s quite amazing performance at christening almost every room in his place. _“Still sleeping.”_

“Our guy’s going my way,” Shaw said, glancing through the glass wall that made up the front of the shop from her spot behind the counter. “Two doughnuts, cappuccino, and double-shot espresso.” She continued relaying her rather boring observation as she restocked the coffee beans, rolling her eyes when the number skipped his way back. “Breakfast in bed, how swe—“

_“Shaw?”_

Shaw muttered an acknowledgement, but her eyes were fixated on the newly-preoccupied table outside. It was the woman back from her previous waitressing gig, Caroline something. She looked a bit different with her dress and trench coat. She also had a companion this time. Judging from the way the bearded man pulled his chair closer and put a casual arm over the back of her chair, Shaw assumed he was her date.

She didn’t encounter the apparent couple on their apparent vacation, but her attention remained on them all the time. Even though Caroline was all smile and the man behaved like a gentleman, she felt that something was off. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, though.

“Cole?” Shaw whipped her phone out, taking a discreet picture of Caroline’s date and sent it over to Cole. “Can you do a quick background check?”

_“Who’s he?”_

“Just an irrelevant.”

The man was indeed an irrelevant, at least for their line of work. Just some big hotshot CEO of some insurance company. Still, Shaw couldn’t shake the tingling in her guts. She watched them like a hawk up until they stood up to leave and Caroline caught her eyes and winked at her. She stared on, unblinking at the very real prospect of being made by a woman she had met twice.

Shaw ended up hacking the flight records—yes, she was capable of hacking without Cole’s help every now and then—and took a peek at the CEO’s company website. He checked out, even though by the time she did the checking he had just filed bankruptcy. The only unsettling thing was the fact that there was no Caroline Turing, not in any flight records to anywhere through the year and not in the DMV files and not in any type of social media.

Caroline Turing just didn’t exist.

 

* * *

 

Caroline—or whatever her name was—became a blip in Shaw’s radar. By coincidence, she hadn’t gone undercover in coffee shop as well. She hadn’t seen Caroline anywhere for almost a whole year, as if she sensed that Shaw had every intention of shooting her (and not in the knee) if they path did cross again.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Shaw slammed the gallon of soy milk she just took out from the fridge, cracking it on the bottom (go cow or go home, so she wasn’t crying over the spilled milk). Her fellow waiter cried at her, the barista did too. She paid no heed to either of them as she bent down to retrieve the backup piece she had strapped on her ankle (silencing the protesters in the process) and marched out.

Caroline or whatever had been smiling at her since she sat on the table by the window. In a passing, Shaw noted that her attire was different from the other two times they had met and that there might be a gun on the inner pocket of her leather jacket and another tucked on her waistband. Shaw sat down on the chair beside her with an annoyed huff, gun concealed under her black apron as to not attract more unwanted attention.

“Hello, Caroline.”

Caroline smiled at her, quirking her brow at the bulge on Shaw’s crotch. “Is that your gun or are you just happy to see me?”

Shaw rolled her eyes. “Which part of the government are you?” she asked, cocking the gun higher. “CIA?”

“I’m more of an independent contractor.” Caroline chuckled as she offered her hand. “You can call me Root, agent Shaw.”


	2. High School AU

It had been the third time this week. Shaw rarely sat on the same spot whenever she visited the library. Most of the time she didn’t stay at all, opting to borrow a book and read it somewhere outdoor, but it had been raining since Sunday and she had to concede to stay inside.

That was how she noticed the senior who was in the library a lot and how said senior seemed to always move to sit in front of her. She did wear glasses (although limited to only when she had to), but she wasn’t blind. The senior had been eyeing her since she sat down across her. It wasn’t the condescending look some kids like to give her due to her ethnicity. It was of interest, but unlike shy glances girls stole or the blatant check-out boys did.

The senior was typing whatever she had been typing on her laptop while staring at her. As if she was trying to figure her out. It irked her more than she would like to let on. She looked up from the heavy anatomy book, caught the senior’s eyes, and gave her a hostile glare. To her horror, the senior didn’t look away. Instead, a slow grin curled up her lips, as though saying _finally_.

“What?”

Shaw growled. One hand balled in tight fist on top of the open book. The school counselor said that there was something wrong with her and that she had anger issue they had to work on. She thought it was bullshit.

“I’m just wondering...” the senior began, pushing her own glasses up on the bridge of her nose after she closed her laptop. And well, Shaw admitted that she had a nice voice and smooth-looking hair and she would maybe consider her pretty, but something about her just wouldn’t stop bugging her. “If you’d like to go on a date with me?”

It took Shaw aback. Her fist opened up, palm gripping the edge of the desk like she was ready to bolt because _what the hell?_

The librarian made a sharp shushing noise at their direction. Shaw turned to him and furrowed her brows when she was met with a glare. The senior chuckled. So perhaps Shaw had those words out loud. The situation required her to. She had anger issue anyway.

“We don’t even know each other.”

“You can call me Root,” the senior—Root said. “And I do know about you, Sameen.”

There was mirth in Root’s smile that grated Shaw’s nerve in the most confusing way. For the first time she wanted to punch _and_ kiss someone she just met (she always went with punch, but not this time. She didn’t kiss Root either, though. That was just rude and creepy). Judging from the way she leaned forward with an easy smile, Root was aware of the effect she had provoked from Shaw.

“I read your file,” she admitted, shameless. “And I’m kind of a big fan.”

“Freaking stalker.”

If Root heard Shaw’s mutter, she didn’t mind the accusation. “So I really would like to take you to dinner this Friday.”

After a beat of consideration, Shaw shrugged. “Only if you pay.” Free food was free food after all.

“Of course.” Root smiled, looking so pleased with herself. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

 

* * *

 

It was Tuesday when Root asked her out, so Shaw had two and a half days to do a little digging and stalking of her own (and cancel the date, should Root turn out to be a serial killer or something).

Root—or Samantha Groves as listed in the school record—was almost invisible. She didn’t smoke or drink or get high. She didn’t sneak out into parties and make out with college students (Shaw did, once or twice). She didn’t get into fights (unlike Shaw). She skipped classes a lot, but her grades were above average so the teachers were content with turning blind eye and just let her be. The only part of her that stood out was the fact that she was a close friend of the missing girl, Hanna something, back in eighth grade. She wasn’t part of the popular kids, in spite of her appearance qualified her to be one, nor the nerdy club. She was an outcast, just like Shaw.

(There was a rumor of Root being hacker extraordinaire but Shaw thought it was only because the other students were jealous of her fancy gadgets.)

Shaw figured going on a date with Root wouldn’t hurt. Thus on Friday afternoon, she changed into a new pair of skinny jeans and t-shirt and her favorite combat boots (all black, of course) and put on the lipstick she had chosen from her mother’s collection.

Root showed up at seven in an ensemble of all black of her own, plus her typical leather jacket. She didn’t bring a bouquet of flower or some fancy wine, which was kind of expected because they were still high school students after all (although Shaw had a feeling that Root was _that_ kind of date) and thank God because Shaw couldn’t handle too much in one night. Not after her mother had asked where and with whom she was going, to which each she answered with _date_ and _a weird girl named Root_. Her mother later on opened the door for Root and called her by her chosen name and blushed at the compliment Root told her (damn smooth talker). She told her to bring Sameen back before ten and to have fun and being a true Persian she was, kissed both of them on the cheeks before ushering them out.

( _Maybe I asked out the wrong Shaw_ , Root had remarked on the short walk to her car—an old truck that belonged to her mother. She was recovering from being kissed not once or twice, but three times by Shaw’s mother, who she just had met for the first time. Shaw made a face at her.)

Overall, the date was nice. Root had rushed to open the passenger door for Shaw, to which she earned an annoyed huff for her effort. When they arrived at the steakhouse, she couldn’t do it again because Shaw had gotten out faster than she rounded the car. She pouted at the lost chance, but gained her grin back when she managed to hold the door open for her. Shaw lost count on how many times she rolled her eyes. They were going to get stuck in the back of her head if Root kept acting all chivalrous.

They didn’t talk much. Root was content with just staring (Shaw suspected she had some sort of food fetish). She filled the comfortable silence with mundane topics, even though she was answered with a word or two. Shaw wasn’t much a chatterer. She also didn’t want to know how Root knew her favorite food and drink and how came she owned a black card to pay for everything.

The only thing Shaw bothered to tell her was _you don’t have any friend_ during the aimless walk they did after dinner (and no, they did _not_ hold hands). Her social skill was shit but she had been curious because even though she was a loner herself, she had Reese and Carter and sometimes the most popular girl in school, Zoe Morgan, hung out with her. Root’s only ‘friend’ was the counselor she was assigned to, Mister Wren or something.

Root blinked, but she didn’t take Shaw’s bluntness as rudeness. “I don’t like people,” she said and smiled, catching Shaw’s gaze and saw her nodded (Shaw could relate to that on a personal level). A breeze passed, she shed her jacket and draped it on Shaw, hands lingered on her shoulders a little longer than necessary. “Well, most people.”

Shaw rolled her eyes, _again_.

 

* * *

 

When they pulled over at Shaw’s house, she said a quick _bye_ before getting out of the car. Root jogged up to her, walking her all the way to her front door. She realized too late that it was because she was still wearing her jacket (she always wanted one, but hadn’t saved up enough to buy it) so she took it off with just a bit longing and handed it back to Root.

“Thanks.”

Root seemed surprised, but accepted the proffered jacket anyway. “It’s my pleasure.” She refrained from telling Shaw that she could keep it. Shaw’s scent lingered on it and she had the urge to wrap herself and pretended that it was Shaw hugging her. She would do that later at home. “I had a good time,” she said instead, biting the left side of her bottom lip whilst looking at Shaw’s. “Good night, Sameen.”

Shaw nodded, expecting Root to turn around and walk back to her car. Instead, she continued staring while standing on her spot just a couple feet away from Shaw and shuffled her leg. For once throughout the night, she seemed small and unsure and shy and cute.

Shaw wasn’t dumb and Root didn’t have food fetish for sure. She sighed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head before she grabbed Root’s arm and pulled her down for a kiss. Root gasped against her lips. She smirked into it, pulling back before it could deepen.

“I’ll see you next Friday.”

It took Root a moment to recover. When she did, she nodded and beamed and there was a lovely blush adorning her cheeks. She remained standing on the porch with a stupid grin on her face even after Shaw had gone inside for a good minute. Shaw had to yell at her to _go home, for God’s sake_ for her to snap out of her daze and went home.

(On next Friday, Root rolled up on a black motorcycle and wore even more leather and it took everything in Shaw to not pin her against the front door and kiss the hell out of her right there and then. She did so on their third date, though.)


	3. Royalty Arranged Marriage AU

“No.”

The chancellor gave a half-smile. “Your father owed the kingdom a plot of land, Lady Shaw. A quite vast one.”

Sameen glared at him.

Her mother pinched at her side. “I’m sure Sam understand, my lord.”

Sameen turned to glare at her mother. No, she didn’t understand why _she_ had to marry the crown prince if her family wanted to keep, as the kingdom’s mouthpiece—Lord Finch—had put, ‘a plot of land’. She didn’t care. Her father had just died. She didn’t get sad, or happy, or lonely, but she did know that they were supposed to be still in mourning. Instead, she was trapped in a meeting with the kingdom’s representative talking about a marriage.

It was no secret that the queen had been unwell and that the chancellor had been running the kingdom from behind the scene for the past four years. In four months, the crown prince would be about age to take over. But there was a catch: he had to be married first. Sameen guessed her father’s death and herself were nothing but a damn convenient to the kingdom.

Her mother, however, saw it as an opportunity to keep their family legacy. Sameen had wanted to storm out of the meeting hall, climb on her steed, and not coming back forever—but she couldn’t. Not when she had promised her father that she would do her best to protect her mother and their people. Thus she gritted her teeth and dug her nails into the armrest of her chair and nodded whenever her mother cued her with a pinch on her thigh.

It had only been two days since they buried her father and at the end of the day, her mother had agreed for her to be engaged to a boy she had never even met before.

 

* * *

 

The crown prince, Sam, was nothing like Sameen had expected. He was tall and charming and so _so_ beautiful it was almost disturbing. His blondish wavy hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. His eyes, which were a shade lighter than Sameen’s own dark brown ones, twinkled with mischief. His face was smooth, no sign of facial hair on it. Sameen could tell that he didn’t shave because as he took her hand to kiss the back of it, she didn’t feel any irritating stubble rubbing against her skin.

“Lady Shaw.” And his voice was nowhere deep or rough.

It took every fiber in Sameen’s being to not jerk her hand away and smack the prince across his pretty face. She would get her whole arm cut—if not herself killed—if she dared to do so. The prince seemed to be well aware of it and he winked at her.

“Your Royal Highness,” she greeted back, each word filled with sarcasm.

She had assumed she would have to deal with a cocky, spoiled boy who acted like a tough man. She wasn’t prepared to face a polite (but damn flirty) prince who could pass as a girl if he were to let his hair down and put a dress on. It didn’t make her dislike him any less, though.

On the second day of Sameen’s stay, Prince Sam invited her to join him on the training ground. She couldn’t decline, so there she was sitting under the shade of a tree on the sideline and being bored out of her mind. She was taught to be docile, to sit back and clap and stroke males’ ego (even though she was as good—if not better—than most page her age).

After watching the first match, she had to admit that the prince wasn’t half bad himself, despite his lanky body and too narrow waist. He fought with confidence and wielded two swords at once, alternating between each of them for offense and defense as though they were mere extension of his arms. She thought it was kind of hot, but not hot enough to spend the rest of her life with him.

(She was only thirteen summers old, for God’s sake!)

(He was almost sixteen. Why couldn’t _he_ find a better suited lady? Perhaps Lady Morgan’s rumored rejection had broken his heart.)

From his spot on the training ground, Prince Sam caught her eyes. He scrunched his brows when she forced an awkward smile and waved back at him. She dreaded it when he jogged up to join her. He took the time to tuck the escaped strand of hair that stuck on his sweaty forehead while she let the silence stretch. She didn’t know what to say to him—she didn’t want to talk to him, or even be there, if she was being honest.

“I asked you to join me,” Prince Sam said. When Sameen remained unfazed, he took her hand and tugged her back on her feet. “Let’s get you out of that dress.” He waved at the maids lingering on the background and told them, “Find something suitable for Sameen in my dresser, please.”

He ignored her glare at his choice of words just like he ignored his fellow sparring match’s surprised protest. The maids, however, were used to the prince’s antics and ushered her up to his room. Not an hour later, she came back donned in his old pair of pants (that the hems still needed to be rolled up a couple of times) and a black tunic.

Prince Sam looked up from the apple he was nibbling, nodding in approval. “That’s better.” He then threw one of his wooden training swords at her. “We’re gonna have so much fun together,” he said, grinning.

Sameen caught the sword with ease, betraying the whole mindset that a lady wasn’t supposed to ever raise a weapon of any kind. Her father was the only person who had let her. He taught her, sneaking in sparring time at late nights in her bedroom. Nobody but them knew. When he died, she thought she wouldn’t have any chance to learn more. However, as she followed the prince to the middle of the training ground with the sword’s familiar weight grasped in her hand, she realized that she was wrong.

“Ready?”

For the first time since they met, Sameen grinned back at the prince. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad.

(She hit him hard on the shoulder and knocked him down on their first match, much to everyone’s horror. Well, everyone but the prince himself who wore the bruise with pride and gushed about the match he had lost to everyone he met through the rest of the week.)

 

* * *

 

Three weeks had passed since Sameen arrived at the palace and it was time for the engagement to be made official. Unlike her initial thought, she wasn’t fighting tooth and nail against it. Perhaps it was because Prince Sam continued to bug and amaze her at the same time. She had more freedom and fun while staying alone in the palace than when she lived in her family manor.

The prince was quite a rebel himself, bringing her to do all the activities that were reserved for males and letting her wore his clothes even though he continued to tease her about it. Unlike everyone else who was uncomfortable with her mixed background and tried to erase the fact, he called her _Sameen_ , savoring each letter as though it was the apple he loved to snack on. He only called her _Sam_ when he was being cheeky, given that they had the same name and all.

There were the lingering stares full of longing that Sameen pretended she wasn’t aware of, but curious about, because he acted as if she was beyond his reach while in fact she was going to be his bride within the year. Yet at the same time, he was so guarded about his personal space that he always made sure they didn’t stand too close with each other. She had a suspicion that he was just confused—like she did when she realized that sometimes she too fancied another ladies, like a certain Lady Carter, in a non-platonic way.

(If he was going to be the kind of man that preferred other man’s company, she wouldn’t mind at all.)

On the day of their engagement, the kingdom held a ball to celebrate it. By the prince’s request, they didn’t kiss or dance or even hold hands. All Sameen had to endure was standing by his side while they greeted the guests. He was graceful as always, all smiles and throwing compliments left and right. He made up for the lack of enthusiasm she showed and she appreciated it.

The guests were too busy dancing and drinking when she sneaked out to the balcony. A headache had been pounding on the back of her forehead, thanks to the complicated hairdo that pulled on her scalp. The cool breeze offered a temporary relief from the heavy dress she was stuffed in. She tugged at the corset caging her chest, but to no avail. There were things that even a crown prince couldn’t get her out from. With a defeated sigh, she draped herself over the marble banister (her mother would get a heart attack if she found her in such unladylike position but she couldn’t care less). She wasn’t alone for long.

“Are you okay?”

Sameen took the wine Prince Sam offered, finishing the whole glass in one hearty gulp that left him chuckling as he placed the empty glass aside. “It’d be nice if we didn’t have to do all of this,” she said, sighing. “I guess none of us has the life we want.”

Prince Sam tilted his head in contemplation. “Actually, Sameen...” he began. Even his usual bright smile couldn’t conceal the sadness in his eyes. “I’ve been hiding since I was twelve.” He only hesitated for a moment before reaching out to lace their fingers together. Their matching rings glinted under the low light. “This might be the first time I feel like I belong.”

Sameen felt an odd pull in her chest. She leaned forward, taking her hand out of his grasp. Like her mother used to comfort her father, she placed a hand on the prince’s bicep and squeezed—at least that was her intention, because in the last second, he had turned a bit to keep the space between them and her hand landed on his chest instead. He gasped.

She didn’t get what was so scandalous about it until it registered to her that despite the many layers of clothes concealing the shape of his body, her palm was resting on something soft—something soft and fleshy and round that she herself had started developing and _he_ wasn’t supposed to have. Looking up, she saw his rosy cheeks and wide eyes and _oh_. His pretty face and smooth skin and long hair and soft voice and _breasts_ —they all clicked.

The prince was a princess in disguise.


	4. Childhood Friends to Lovers AU

Samantha was ten when a family moved to the empty house across hers. She thought no one ever would, seeing that they were out of town and Bishop wasn’t the most interesting place to settle down. Yet there they were, a small family of three.

One look at the mother, however, made Samantha understand that perhaps quiet was what they had wanted (although it didn’t lessen the chance of the townies being close-minded racist). The father was in the army, as his t-shirt suggested, and he had smiled at her when he caught her staring from the porch. They had a young child—probably seven or eight years old—but she had yet to see more than glimpses of them.

Later that day, Samantha told her mother about their new neighbor. Her mother had just finished off the shift at her second job, but they cooked together well past midnight and she was instructed to reheat and bring over some of the lasagna as a welcome. Thus the next morning, before biking her way to school, she went across the street with a warm plate of lasagna. Her backpack slipped down the one shoulder it had been hanging as she tiptoed to ring the newly-installed doorbell.

A girl with wild, dark curls opened the door. “Yes?” she grunted, seeming annoyed somehow. One of her front teeth was missing.

There was a hint of an accent lacing the lone word and Samantha recalled hearing snippets of her neighbors talking in a language she didn’t recognize. Before she could answer, another voice came from inside the house, using the same foreign language and she saw the girl’s brown eyes lit up in understanding. Her guess of it being the girl’s mother turned out to be correct when not a moment later said woman came to stand behind her daughter. She looked surprised and puzzled and weary.

“Hi.” Samantha offered her best smile to ease up the tension. “I live across the street with my mom.” She motioned at her house with her free hand, noting the way the woman relaxed. “She’s sorry she can’t come over to welcome you herself, but we cooked some lasagna for you.” She offered the plate and grinned wider when it was taken from her hand, aware of the piercing dark eyes that were still staring at her. “Welcome to the neighborhood, although it’s just us here.”

The woman laughed a little at the words. Samantha didn’t get why people tended to think that she was a funny kid when she didn’t even try to be funny, she was just stating the truth. It made interaction easier, though.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” the woman said, her accent thick. She then nudged at her silent daughter. “What do you say, Sameen?”

 _Sameen_ , Samantha jotted down on her mental note. It sounded nice. She couldn’t wait to try saying the name during her ride to school. She had to make sure she said it in the correct pronunciation and perfect intonation, just like Sameen’s mother did.

“ _Mam’noon_ ,” Sameen said. When Samantha gave her a confused look, she shook her head and rephrased, “Thank you...” She trailed off, frowning.

“Oh!” While Samantha thought she was cute, she understood where the expression came from. “I’m Samantha.” Sameen scrunched her nose and she couldn’t help but chuckle. “You can call me Sam.”

Sameen nodded. “Bye Sam.” She turned on her heel and went inside after she snatched the plate from her mother’s hand.

The older woman had the grace to appear embarrassed and muttered a soft apology that Samantha only shook her head at. Any other time she would think that it was rude—it _was_ —but she let it go this time. Sameen had piqued her interest and she couldn’t wait for them to be friends and play and go to school together.

 

* * *

 

They were _not_ friends.

Sameen didn’t even go to school.

The other elementary school was located on the other side of the town, so the chance for Sameen to go there was slim to none. Samantha had expected her to get enrolled in her school within a week or two. Then maybe she could give her a ride on her bicycle to and from school and those trips wouldn’t be so lonely anymore. It would also be the only time they were able to attend the same school because Sameen was seven and while Samantha was only ten, she was already in sixth grade. But Sameen never showed up.

“They lived in Qatar.”

Samantha looked away from the window she was frowning at and cocked a brow at her mother. What did that have to do with Sameen not going to her school? If Sameen wasn’t fluent in English yet, she could help her with that—she said so to her mother.

Her mother chuckled. “They used to stay in military bases, sweetie. They moved around a lot, so Sameen is homeschooled,” she said, sharing the things she had learned from her one time lunch with their neighbor while Samantha was at school.

Samantha felt envious—people were weird, she never really understood them and the social games everyone played and the stupid way they hated her just because she didn’t have a father—but she also understood why Sameen wouldn’t want to try the whole public school experience.

Her mother noticed her sigh and little pout and patted her head. “You can always play with her.”

“I guess...”

Time flew by and still Samantha didn’t have the chance to do more than smiling or waving at Sameen from across the street. Sameen’s father went back to serve, but his absence didn’t change anything. Her mother was an academic, she went to conferences and classes pretty often and she always brought Sameen along. When they were home, Samantha’s mother didn’t want to intrude by letting her stayed with them while she was working (no matter how much she begged and pouted), so she had to remain in the library like she usually did.

That was where she fell in love for the first time—computer made a lot more sense than people. That was also where she met her first friend, Hanna Frey. And for those couple of years, she was content with just smiling at Sameen from across the street.

Until Hanna went missing.

“Your friend is dead.”

It wasn’t the person Samantha expected to be at her door at nine in the morning after her trust in humanity crumbled. It wasn’t the greeting she expected either. “Well, hello to you too,” she bit back. Hanna had been gone for a week. The search party was futile, the police didn’t even check Trent Russell after she reported what she saw, and telling the librarian was a bad idea.

Sameen stared at her with unchanged expression.

After a prolonged staring contest, Samantha sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache pounded on the back of her skull and while she would love to skip school for the rest of her life, her mother wouldn’t let her skip for another day. She didn’t want to spend her last day away from that hell-hole of a school and its dumb people with fighting, especially not with Sameen.

“Yeah, she probably is.”

There was no sign of bitterness in her admittance; she was done with keeping her hope up. It was deliberating somehow. Perhaps it was what she needed all along—to accept that Hanna was dead and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

A big plate was shoved to her and she had to use both hands to hold it up. The strong smell of spices mixture hit her nostrils. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had skipped dinner and breakfast because she wasn’t in the mood to eat anything. Looking back to Sameen, she was greeted with a small smile.

“ _Māmān_ made it. _Zereshk polo_. It’s sour, but it’s really good.”

That was the longest sentence Sameen ever said to her and it was the longest interaction they had that wasn’t consisted of _hi_ or _bye_. Samantha stared on, unsure of what she should say or do. Sameen made the decision for her as she nodded and walked back to her house, leaving Samantha alone on her porch before she did the same. She dug in the food the moment she set the plate down on the breakfast bar and finished it off in one sitting. It was a little too sour for her but like Sameen had said, it was good.

With her stomach full, a plan began forming in her mind. People failed her, so she would have to fix the problem herself. She would have to use Hanna’s identity—nothing would fit more perfect than that—and in her estimation it should take a year or two before she could pull it off, but it was going to worth the wait. Trent Russell was going to pay.

 

* * *

 

Samantha learned about the accident from Sameen’s mother’s frantic action and tear stricken face as she rambled, unaware that she had slipped back into Farsi as she did so. For the second time in her life, Samantha felt helpless. It was late. It was just the two of them up until a few miles away. Her mother was at work, she couldn’t leave or else she would be fired. Sameen’s mother didn’t have driving license and their car— _Sameen and her father were in the car and there was an accident._

Samantha swallowed down her distrust and hatred and ignored the way her heart pounding under her ribs because no one knew what happened with Sameen and her father—only that there was an accident—as she pressed in the sheriff number. She would get in trouble with her mother but she had stayed hidden when the sheriff arrived and he had agreed to take Sameen’s mother to the hospital the paramedic had told her, so it was worth getting grounded for.

Aside from some scratches, Sameen was unharmed. Her father died on scene, though.

Samantha found her sitting alone on the front steps of her house, still donned in the black dress, after the funeral. There were some visitors inside. The nasty women from the bar downtown had just arrived and they spent no time to gossip. She made sure she slammed the door on her way out, offering a smile when Sameen glanced back at her. She sat down beside her, not close enough for their shoulders to touch, and dropped an energy bar on her lap. Sameen held up the treat, cocking a brow at her.

“I heard you skipped breakfast.”

Sameen ripped the wrapper and took a bite. “They thought there’s somethin’ wrong with me,” she said after swallowing, nudging her head to the direction of the door. Both of them knew that behind it there were whispers—about sandwich and lack of tears and freak. Rumors spread like wildfire on a dry summer in small town like Bishop.

“Do you think so too?”

If Samantha wasn’t watching Sameen, she would have missed the little nod as she took another bite of the energy bar. But she was always watching and her light smile turned into a frown. “You know, Schrödinger said—“ she began, for a moment wondering if Sameen even knew who she was talking about, but recognition lit up dark eyes and she felt a mixture of pride and fondness because her Sameen was smart and well-read “—that at its base level, the universe isn’t made up of physical matter, but just... _shapes_.”

“I’m a shape?” Sameen deadpanned.

“Yeah... And if you were a shape, you were a straight line. An arrow,” Samantha said. She continued to smile despite Sameen’s growing annoyance. “I feel that was what makes you beautiful.”

All at once, Sameen’s irritation vanished. She gaped, trying to come up with a reply. Before she could come up with anything, the nasty women stepped out and Samantha had to move to make way for them. They sneered at Sameen on their way out and she returned it with a scowl, but Samantha was pretty sure the redness on her cheeks had been there before the women disturbed them.

 

* * *

 

Sameen took her father’s death in strides. He wasn’t home a lot so she was used to his absence in her life—or at least that was what Samantha thought, because she herself grew up without a father and so she couldn’t grasp the idea of missing someone she never had. Sameen’s mother, however, took it hard. She delved back into her study and work. By the time Samantha began her senior year, she couldn’t say she was surprised to see Sameen in the hallway of her school.

“You’re really here,” Samantha said with a wide grin. She had overheard their mothers talking about school, but didn’t think Sameen would get into _her_ high school. She had the urge to wrap her in a hug, but didn’t. It would be quite inappropriate since they were nothing but neighbors and doing so in a hallway packed with students would attract unwanted attention—some kids already eyeing Sameen and Samantha couldn’t help but step closer to her. “What grade did they assign you?”

“Ninth.”

So Sameen had skipped as well. She would be the youngest in her class. Samantha knew first hand how vicious people could be to anyone who was different even in the slightest, so she was ready to look out for her. Kind of like how Hanna had looked out for her before in middle school, she hoped they would get closer as well.

Her concern turned out to be unnecessary.

They seemed to grow in the opposite way through the years. Ever since Hanna died, Samantha had retreated to the background. She was never popular to begin with, but now she avoided people like the bad codes they were and engrossed herself in computers. She had assumed Sameen, who was quiet and too blunt for her own good and different—not in the bad way—would have problem adjusting. She was wrong.

Sameen was nothing like Samantha, who was lanky and awkward in her own skin. She was pretty and small and just got the spurt of puberty that granted her with tamer hair and perfect curves. The soccer and cheerleader teams each invited her to join them. Some boys tried to hit on her and much to Samantha’s horror, she didn’t turn down their advances.

Sometime during the middle of the school year, Sameen had her first boyfriend—or so Samantha had thought.

They didn’t get home together that day. Samantha had counseling, which was forced on her due to her refusal to continue her study in any college despite being straight A’s student, while Sameen had soccer practice. There weren’t many vehicles passing by their street, so the red sedan parking in front of Sameen’s house caught her attention as she put her motorcycle to a stop in her own lawn.

She recognized the car—Tomas Koroa’s, one of the few sophomores who owned and drove a car to school—but he wouldn’t have anything to do with Sameen. Frowning, she took off her helmet, dismounted her motorcycle, and was halfway to reach the road when she froze. Her curiosity and concern were paid off with heartache. Inside the car, Tomas was sitting on the driver seat. His hand was on the back of Sameen’s head and hers was grasping his shoulder and she was sure they were not using their mouths to talk.

The breath that got hitched in her throat came out as a shuddered sigh. She couldn’t bear to watch more and didn’t want to wait for Sameen to notice her—because she never would—so she turned around and went inside her house and told herself that it was okay. Sameen might be different but she wasn’t different the way _she_ was different, so it was okay. She never had the chance anyway.

Except that Tomas wasn’t the only boy Sameen liked.

And boys weren’t the only ones Sameen kissed.

It started off with Sameen’s falling grades. She was smart—she knew it, her mother knew it, Samantha knew it, even the headmaster knew it. Studying hadn’t been a problem when she was homeschooled because her mother had made their sessions exciting, but school applied different methods and sitting in class to take notes bored her to death. Samantha had finished off most of her classes by then and she would take on any chance she had to spend time with Sameen so it was a definite _yes_ when Sameen’s mother asked for her help.

Sameen wasn’t as elated, though. She groaned as she plopped down on her bed. “I don’t need a tutor.”

The protest snapped Samantha out of her inspection of her surroundings. It was the first time she had ever been inside Sameen’s bedroom and even though it wouldn’t be the last, she tried to take in as much details as she could. She stepped over the shoes and socks and magazines that were scattered on the floor, only hesitating for a moment before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. The dark blue covers felt soft under her palm.

“They won’t let you play next year if your grade is falling, Sam.”

Sameen huffed something that sounded like _fine_ after she rolled over to her stomach. Their legs were pressing against each other and Samantha had a hard time stopping her eyes from straying to anything below Sameen’s waist. She figured fixing her gaze on the sliver of skin that happened to be left uncovered by Sameen’s gray top was more appropriate. She was too busy staring that she didn’t notice Sameen lifting and turning her head to look at her.

“Let’s make it fun,” Sameen said, smirking when Samantha met her on the eye with wide eyes and rosy cheeks. “For every class I pass with an A, you’ll cook me something.”

“Something?” It wasn’t a fair trade because Sameen would get an A if she just paid more attention in class, so Samantha decided to be coy. “Anything? Because frying an egg counts as cooking, right?”

Sameen narrowed her eyes and held the glare.

Eventually, Samantha gave in. “Okay.”

The deal gave an excuse for Sameen to come over for food whenever she pleased, but Samantha wasn’t complaining. Many nights it was just the two of them studying and having dinner and washing dishes together because their mothers were busy with works. After years of being neighbors, they became friends at last.

Being friends was telling Sameen to call her by ‘Root’ and Sameen doing so when no one was around without further questioning. Being friends required Root to look away and pretend she didn’t notice whenever she saw Sameen making out with another boy—it was never the same boy and she cursed her bad luck because she happened to walk in on such scene a lot. But it also meant tending to Sameen’s swollen knuckles after she punched the boy who badmouthed her after she turned him down. And it meant hacking the school’s system to change the grades of the girls who dared calling Sameen a slut behind her back.

Being friends felt good because they looked out for each other, but Root didn’t want to be just friends anymore because she was sure she had been in love with Sameen since she was ten.

Then on the night of the senior prom she didn’t attend, Sameen kissed her.

“Why are you here?”

Root took her time to chew and swallow the mouthful of pancake she just cooked for dinner. She was used to Sameen’s random barging by then. “I happened to live here,” she said, grinning just a bit too cheeky.

Sameen huffed, rolling her eyes as though saying _you know what I meant_. Root enjoyed getting a rise out of her, but not tonight. She offered her fork as an apology. It didn’t take more coaxing for Sameen to sit on the stool next to her and started shoveling pancakes into her mouth. Root could only smile at the enthusiasm Sameen always showed when food was involved. It wasn’t long before pancakes were gone and Sameen was licking the fork.

“To answer your question, I didn’t want to go,” Root said as she gathered the empty plate and cooking utensils in the sink. “I thought _you_ did.”

Sameen hummed, nodding her head. She knew some boys had asked Root out—she was pretty and hot and tall and smart—but if she didn’t want to go then it was okay. Sameen had wanted to go, though. Even though the dance was way too formal with teachers patrolling the gym-turned-into-dance-floor-for-a-night, it seemed fun.

“No one asked me,” she said, pouting around the fork before Root stole it from her. “I guess none of them wanted to go with a freshman.”

Root shrugged with an easy smile and began washing the dishes. A couple of seniors did come to her for advice because they wanted to ask Sameen to be their date for prom. To which she ‘kindly’ reminded them about grades-skipping and that Sameen had only turned fourteen and they were already eighteen, if not nineteen. They backed away on their own. It didn’t count as a win because she didn’t get the girl either, but for that moment she was glad that she hadn’t had her seventeenth birthday yet and thus their age difference wasn’t so massive.

There was a lull aside from the clanking of the dishes. When Root was done, she dried her hands on a clean rag and turned around. Sameen had her arms folded over the breakfast bar, chin perched on top of them. She was eyeing the stack of books, papers, and pens. Root followed her line of sight, watching as she took one of the books and flipped through it with disinterest.

“So...” Sameen started, crinkling her nose in distaste at the material lay open in front of her. The book hid the printed research of some brokers from New York. With school out of the way, Root began to concentrate more on business. “You’re going away soon?”

“Just a couple of days. Three at most.” Root leaned on the other side of the breakfast bar. Sameen’s hair was a bit damp and out of its usual ponytail. It was shiny and seemed so soft that she had the urge to run her fingers through it—she only dared to give a playful tug at some strands before keeping her hands planted on the edge of the bar. They were quite traitorous whenever Sameen was around. “Thanks for covering up for me on graduation.”

Sameen shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. The book was shut, pushed over until its sharp corner stuck the bottom of the thick laptop Root bought last month. “Is this what you are doing from now on?” She glanced at the gadget. Root had gotten her the same model, but unlike her, she only used it to play some games until she got bored. “You’re working with computers?”

“Something like that.”

Root had smiled at her own vague answer. While she had showed Sameen about her coding and hacking, she hadn’t told her about everything. She wanted to. Fear of ruining their friendship wasn’t the one that stopped her from doing so. Sameen wouldn’t judge what she did, just like she had remained unfazed when she shared about Trent Russell, how she trapped and got him killed and scored a hundred thousand dollars along the way. _That_ concerned her most—that manipulation and murder and deaths didn’t affect Sameen. She was perfect in that regard and Root didn’t want to ruin such perfection by exposing more of her true self to her.

Both of them perked up when they heard the familiar sound of a car entering the lawn.

“I guess I’ll see you when I see you,” Sameen said as she stood up.

Since they were on different grades and it was Root’s last year, their mothers had advised them to not spend as much time together. They barely met each other lately. With graduation coming, which Root wouldn’t be able to attend due to prior ‘arrangement’ with a ‘potential client’, whatever that supposed to mean, there was no telling when they could hang out again.

Root had walked Sameen up to the door. She saw her mother fetching something from the passenger side of the car just several feet away. “Not when I see you first,” she said in lieu of goodbye.

All of a sudden, Sameen halted on her track. Her eyes were dark when she faced Root. From the way she frowned, Root could tell that she had something in mind. However, before she could ask what was wrong, Sameen had stepped closer and cupped her cheek. She felt, rather than heard, the _sorry I didn’t get you any graduation present_ whispered onto her lips and then Sameen was kissing her.

It was a chaste, barely-there touch of the lips; unlike the usual face-sucking she had witnessed Sameen did with boys. Her heart raced up all the same. It was over before her mother closed the passenger door and Sameen already crossed the street when she blinked herself out of the daze.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” her mother asked, laying a hand over her forehead while the other held up a grocery bag against her chest. “You’re not getting a fever, are you?”

Root could only shake her head and hide her face when her mother mentioned that Sameen was a bit red as well when they passed each other on her way in.

 

* * *

 

Neither mentioned the kiss.

Even though they didn’t talk about it, it was everything Root had wished for her first. They stayed friends afterward and she hadn’t seen Sameen kissing any other girl for the rest of the school year—that was good enough for her.

(The pessimistic voice in her head said that Sameen was crushing on that gymnast girl she had been hanging out with and that their kiss was nothing but preparation for the real thing with the girl.)

Her online presence in the underworld was growing fast. She had quite the reputation by then. She preferred to stay behind the scene, hiring others to do the dirty work and keeping her hands clean. Lucky for her, cell phone and internet was a thing. She could have masked her real location, hacked and framed targets from the safety of her bedroom—she was _that_ good—but she didn’t. She still travelled states away, using fake IDs to keep people at bay from questioning.

It was more to keep the people she cared about safe, should she get made, and also to maintain her conscience. She was _not_ a sociopath, even though sometimes she wished she was so the things she had to do would have been much easier. Being one would free her from the annoying guilt that lurked inside her chest every time she closed her eyes at nights. She didn’t enjoy killing people; she just didn’t feel very bad about it.

The first time she killed someone—pulled the trigger, the man stumbled and crying curses as he charged forward so she pulled the trigger again and again until he fell and blood painting the tiles in red—she had only turned eighteen.

It was such a messed up way to welcome adulthood.

Her hands were trembling as she wiped and discarded the gun on a trashcan. It was shaking while she erased the whole month worth of footage of the club and the subway entrances. She burned her clothes, showered twice, wore a wig and blue contact lenses. She took a roundabout way to get back to Bishop.

By the time she arrived home, she was exhausted but restless. It was nighttime. Her mother was at work. She couldn’t bear the thought of being home alone. The man’s gurgle as he let out his last breath, his wide eyes staring at her, and bloody mouth curled around another cuss—they haunted her. So she dropped her backpack on the porch and rushed across the street.

She was aware that coming over unannounced was a bad idea, but Sameen’s mother had given her the spare key years ago and she knew Sameen wouldn’t mind. Her mother wasn’t home either, but Sameen was and she wasn’t alone. The tears Root had tried so hard to hold back were prickling her eyes as Sameen and the gymnast girl— _Kelly_ , she had called her—rushed to get dressed. They only had their tops off and Root didn’t know whether to curse or thank her luck.

“I...” Kelly glanced at Sameen, but she wasn’t looking at her. “I’ll see myself out.”

Sameen didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t even notice her presence after it was gone. Her brows furrowed. Her eyes fixated on Root and her flushing cheeks and trembling hands and the tears that were flowing down free now that they were alone. She was at a loss of what to do, but she knew that she didn’t like what she was seeing.

Root rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her jeans jacket. “Sorry I ruined your night,” she said. The tears was forced to a stop, although a different kind of ache had settled in her chest and made her want to bawl some more. “She’s hot.” Her chuckle was forced and watery still. “I kinda get it,” she muttered under her breath.

Sameen hadn’t said anything. Her lack of response turned the situation uncomfortable and Root was tempted to go back to her house to nurse her fresh heartbreak. She already took a step back, a pathetic excuse on her tongue, when Sameen marched forward and stood in her personal space. There was a fleeting thought that she was going to kiss her again—she didn’t want that, she didn’t need the confusion—but then Sameen opened her arms a bit and the funny, expectant look on her face intensified.

It took a second longer than necessary, but Root got it. She wasted no time to hug Sameen, who was small and warm and safe and felt like home. After a while, a hand came up to give an awkward pat on Root’s back. Sameen didn’t know what had caused her to be so upset, but she wouldn’t pry so they stayed that way until one of their mothers came home. Root couldn’t be more grateful for her understanding.

She was eighteen, a killer-for-hire, and she was still very much in love with Sameen.

 

* * *

 

A year later, they found themselves at a goodbye—a real one.

Sameen had received the acceptance letter to Johns Hopkins University, where she hoped to continue her study to their medical school once she got her undergraduate degree from its Krieger School of Arts and Science. Root thought it was ironic that she killed people for a living while Sameen tried to save them. But if anyone was going to be a good doctor, it had to be her Sameen, so she shoved away the feeling she had harbored for her for years and helped her packing.

The moment Sameen was confirmed to enroll in Johns Hopkins, her mother used to opportunity to move away herself. Sameen had mandatory stay in the campus’ dorm for the first two years, but her mother had rented a nice apartment nearby for the two of them. Root couldn’t blame her, though. She too would have moved away from Bishop on the first chance she got, alas her mother didn’t like the idea.

Their mothers had spent the whole month leading to the move with each others; they too had become each others’ best friends through the years. Sameen and she couldn’t afford the same luxury, though. She had works to do, no matter how flexible her actual job was, while Sameen had to fill in every registration requirements. When they did have the time, it was to say goodbye.

Sameen’s mother had flown to Maryland several days prior to set her new living place. Their stuffs were packed and the truck was on its way over as well. Sameen was there to pick the last of her items. Her flight left early on the next morning. Root and her mother were going to drive her over, but for the time being she was to spend the night on their house—or rather in Root’s bedroom—because hers was already empty.

“You can take the bed.”

“Your mom would have a fit if she found either of us sleeping on the couch outside,” Sameen pointed out with a huff as she dropped her backpack next to the door. Root’s tendency to be chivalrous sometimes grated her nerves. “We can share.”

Root caught her eyes then, a slow smirk tugged up her lips and she lifted her brows in a teasing manner. Sameen would roll her eyes again. They would end up sharing the bed, because Sameen could say something as simple as _please_ with cute puppy dog eyes and she would melt. She wouldn’t be able to sleep because she would be too busy staring and memorizing everything about her. Maybe she would wake up with Sameen wrapped in her arms and it could be the goodbye hug she wished for before they parted way in the airport—at least those were what she predicted to happen.

What really happened was Sameen stared back at her with unreadable expression. Her smirk fell. All confidence she had evaporated into nothing. She was left biting on the side of her bottom lip, which Sameen knew was her nervous tell. Sameen shook her head at her before closing the distance between them.

It was nothing like the innocent kiss before. It was rushed and needy. She had to gasp for breath whenever Sameen let her. They didn’t talk anymore, only kissing and touching and kissing some more until she stumbled back onto her bed with Sameen straddling her lap. They silenced each other’s breathy moans with more kisses, minding her mother who was fast asleep in her room down the hallway. She had a pretty good idea where their making-out was leading to when the buttons of her red shirt were ripped off and her palm met Sameen’s ass.

It was comforting to notice Sameen fumbling around, being just as lost at what to do while also impatient and frustrated and blushing and so _so_ beautiful that her heart ached and her head spinning with the huge possibility that it might be Sameen’s first time too.

There were only two people she ever found as fascinating in romantic sense—one was dead and she didn’t stand a chance with the other. She simply never considered _Sameen_ and _sex_ in the same line of thought, not even after the kiss they shared a couple of years ago (especially not with the whole _sorry I didn’t get you any graduation present_ played on repeat inside her mind more times than the actual kiss did). However, as her hands grasped the soft skin of Sameen’s hips and teeth grazed the sensitive spot on her neck and their bare legs tangled under the sheets, she was glad she never did, because her fantasy couldn’t compete to what was happening in reality.

In her fantasy, Sameen would have stayed, though.

In reality, Sameen was long gone when she woke up in the morning.

 

* * *

 

They had each others’ numbers, at least until Sameen changed hers a few months later. Root never tried to reach out for her, not even when she was in Baltimore for a job and Johns Hopkins Homewood campus in Charles Village was just a cab away. The night they spent together was harder to ignore than the kiss. They couldn’t be just friends anymore, not when she knew how much Sameen enjoyed being bitten and how she would tug on her hair when she was close.

The ever hopeful part of her that had pined for years wanted to confront Sameen and asked if it meant anything at all—even though she was well aware that there was nothing she could do if it was, because they led too different lives miles away from each other. The realistic part of her, however, knew how painful it would be to get the classic _I didn’t wanna go to college as a virgin and you just happened to be there_ , so she left it as it was.

With the Shaws gone, she tried to be home more or at least took only short trips. Along with her offshore accounts, she transferred money to her mother’s bank account every weekend. The amount was enough for her to retire, enjoy her life, and grow an herb garden or something. Root even suggested for them to move away, now that the town left nothing to be desired. Her mother declined—she continued working (it kept her busy, she said) and she didn’t want to leave the house she had brought with her own money. Root could do nothing but accept.

Her mother was so in tune with her feelings that she kept telling her to _move on with your life, sweetie_. To which she always replied with _I’m not leaving you here alone_ , a kiss on the cheek, and life went on. It was just the two of them sticking together, back to the way it was before the Shaws moved across the street, except her mother didn’t have to work so hard and struggle to provide for them anymore.

By the time Root was twenty-three, her mother passed away.

It wasn’t of illness or anything. She died in her sleep. Root found out the next morning when her mother hadn’t waken up even though she was about to be late for work and that was all. Root drained all the tears she had for her before she called anyone to make arrangements. As per her mother’s request, she was cremated. Root had a distinct suspicion that everything—from her mother’s peaceful death down to her wish for her ash to be scattered on a nearby river—was her way to set her free. She couldn’t help but smile through the tears and whispered a _thank you_ as the last of the ash flowed along the river.

It was time to move on.

Root wiped the remnant of tears before she began the long trek back to her house. She already contracted a realtor, but with the market condition and the less strategic location of the house, it would be a hard sell. It had taken a whole year for the Shaws’ house to be sold and it was left empty. Her train of thought came to an abrupt stop when she saw someone sitting on the front steps of her porch.

“Sameen?”

At the sound of her name, Sameen looked up from her phone. She barely managed to get it in her pocket and stood up before Root walked up to her. When she raised her hand, Sameen thought she was going to slap her and after how she had left— _ran away_ —four years ago, she deserve it. Instead, Root cupped her cheek with utter gentleness, as though she was fragile and a simple touch could break her. She fought to stay still; she didn’t spend her time, energy, and money only to run away from Root again.

“You’re really here,” Root said, smiling in disbelief, before she threw her arms around Sameen and squeezed her. “She brought you back to me.”

Sameen furrowed her brows. She didn’t have the chance to ask what was that supposed to mean because Root had broken their embrace to stare at her with confusion and the same longing she always sported whenever she thought she wouldn’t notice.

“What are you doing here?”

“ _Māmān_ heard about your mom,” Sameen said. “Sorry I couldn’t come sooner, I had classes.”

That was all Root needed to hear.

Sameen had changed. She was prettier, if that was even possible. Her hair was longer. She got taller, although just a bit. She had extra piercings donned with studs on her earlobes and tattoos lining up her arms. She was a full grown woman on her first year of medical school, but she finished the sandwich Root had put together for lunch with the same gusto and messiness.

“What are you going to do with the house?”

“Sell it. I’m moving away,” Root said, nonchalant. She loved her mother, but not Bishop. With her gone, there was nothing tying her to the town anymore. “Maybe to Washington, or New York.” Probably New York—the big apple. She always loved apples.

Out of every reaction, or rather the lack of one, that Root assumed Sameen would give her, the _Baltimore is nice too_ was not one of them. She stared back at her in bewilderment.

Sameen shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal—like she wasn’t giving Root hope. “You can finally wear those expensive leather jackets you’re so obsessed with.”

Root felt her heart hammered inside her chest, but she tried to match the playful mood by quirking a brow and plastering the smuggest smirk she had. “Are you asking me to move in with you?” she asked, teasing but also hopeful.

Sameen only rolled her eyes.

They spent the weekend with packing. Some reusable items were for charity organization while the rest went to the trash bags. Root was selling the house along with its furniture so she didn’t have to deal with it. They worked together in tandem while talking about the mundane updates on their lives, which mostly Root asking and Sameen answering.

Sameen and her mother had gone to Iran to visit their relatives before she entered medical school, but her mother didn’t come back with her. It seemed like the older woman would stay there for the time being. Root remarked about how she missed her _tahdig_ and Sameen had to agree. She was never much of a cook and after getting kicked out her first apartment for setting the kitchen on fire, she gave up cooking altogether. Root took the opportunity to tease her that in a hypothetical situation where they lived together, she would cook for her—or Sameen could just eat her out, but she wasn’t that bold to say that out loud—but of course it would only happen if Sameen asked her to move in first. She got no response in return.

Despite the continuous flirting and teasing and the history between them, they didn’t kiss or put a repeat on the last night they had spent together years ago. There was no need to share a bed, Sameen slept in Root’s old room and Root in the now-empty master bedroom. They got everything wrapped up right before Sameen had to fly back on Sunday evening, she already skipped a couple classes this semester and couldn’t afford more. Root drove her to the airport and waited until she boarded the plane heading to Maryland.

They didn’t hug, but they did separate in an amicable way this time.

Perhaps it was the closure Root had needed all along and it was time to move on from her old life—from Samantha’s life.

Except that when she got back to the house, there was a key resting on top of a piece of paper waiting for her on the kitchen counter. It contained an address, a phone number, and _you know how to find me_ scrawled underneath in Sameen’s familiar handwriting.

It wasn’t the end of their story after all.


End file.
